


Sideways

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Heterosexual Sex, M/M, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room, The Quidditch Pitch: The Ladies Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:50:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: After so much loss, they're entitled to a little happiness.  But they're entitled to a little happiness as well.





	Sideways

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Alissoroma and LilyValley73 for the betas.  Written for .

* * *

Sideways

“Damn,” Ginny exclaims quietly, eyeing the once-majestic expanse of ceiling above her. Perfectly ruined now, its magic has all been destroyed. The final battle took place only days ago, and the Great Hall suffered the greatest extent of the damage. There are plans to fix the ceiling, Ginny knows, but as far as she can tell, no one is quite certain how to go about it.  
  
She sighs, saddened to see the ruins about her, and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. A palpable, almost formal gravity hangs in the room; it presses heavily down upon her shoulders. Ancient magic that should have lasted forever is gone, and they might never get it back.   
  
“It’s not all bad,” soothes a wistful voice next to her. Luna carries two bottles. “Here,” she offers, extending her right hand and a Butterbeer to Ginny, “you look like you could use something to hold on to.” She has long, white fingers, and oval nails that are both pink and clear at once. Ginny accepts the sticky bottle with a slight frown, suddenly conscious of her own small hands, the nails bitten to the quick. She clutches the bottle to her side, making sure her hands are hidden within the long sleeves of her robe.  
  
“Thanks, Luna.” She watches as her friend’s eyes travel over the stretch of destroyed architecture.   
  
“They’ll fix it soon,” Luna announces, finally meeting Ginny’s eyes with a slight smile.   
  
Ginny blows a piece of wayward hair out of her eyes and snorts derisively. “No one even knows how,” she points out. Luna regards her for a moment in that way she has, as if she’s perfectly capable of reading minds. Inexplicably, Ginny flushes.  
  
“Someone will just have to figure it out, then,” Luna says after a moment, looking around brightly. “It’s all about coming at things sideways.” She tugs suddenly on Ginny’s hand, forcing it out of the robe. “But if it’s making you sad, we should go somewhere else.”  
  
And Ginny lets herself follow, lets Luna guide her out of the crowded Great Hall where the surviving witches and wizards attempt a pitiful celebration on the spot where It had all happened. Luna’s hand is cool, and she leads Ginny down the corridor as surely as she ever does anything, and Ginny is happy to let her.  
  
They finally enter a dim classroom, one far enough away to have suffered only minimal damage. Ginny glances around gratefully. She watches in fascination as Luna takes a smooth, satisfying sip from her Butterbeer, wiping her mouth with the back of her pale hand.  
  
She catches Luna's eyes in the dim light filtering through the dusty window. The blacks of her pupils have nearly eclipsed her blue irises. It's warm in the room. Feeling shivery all over, for no reason at all, Ginny shrugs her shoulders. She’s suddenly quite certain she no longer fits inside her skin. Luna takes another sip from her bottle and gives a slow, lopsided grin.  
  
Ginny’s eyes drop to the smile. She feels she must be blushing from head to toe.  
  
“It’s all about coming at it sideways,” Luna says again, just before she moves her head in close to Ginny's.  
  
*  
  
Harry watches Luna tug on Ginny’s arm and take her out of the Great Hall. He’s not entirely sure why, but he feels a sort of relief when they’re gone. Ever since he ended the war, talking to Ginny’s been hard. It’s been impossible. Talking to anybody at all has been impossible. He looks out over the room. Hermione is in the corner with Ron, their heads pressed close together. She's gesticulating wildly. She casts a long glance at Harry, and is no doubt preparing to come and talk to him again. Get him to _open up_. The thought leaves him numb.   
  
Ron’s shaking his head, and whatever he says calms Hermione down considerably. Harry quits glaring in their direction, feeling a rush of gratitude. Ron always seems to understand when Harry needs to be left alone.   
  
And that’s what he wants, to be left alone. He turns abruptly to head outside, though when he’s there the sun glinting off the ruined grounds does little to lighten his mood. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and casts a backwards glance at the large double doors he’s just swung through. He shuts his eyes for a moment; even alone, he feels a sort of awkward, achy pain – an uncomfortable tingle that starts at his toes and slides along his skin. In the distance, the one remaining Quidditch hoop shines with a kind of dismal pride. Harry starts purposefully over to the pitch.  
  
In a few minutes he’s up on a school broom, and with the air rushing at him, he can finally let himself relax. He loops quickly around the pitch, wishing he had a Snitch to let loose and catch, when he notices a bright red head walking casually in his direction. Summer sunlight glints off a large bottle held at his side.   
  
Harry hovers above the pitch and watches as Ron strides across the grounds, eyes flicking upwards to finally land on Harry. Harry feels it entirely unnecessary to swoop closer to the ground.  
  
“Thought maybe you could use some company,” Ron shouts, head pointed up and eyes squinty in the bright light. “And a little alcohol.”  
  
Harry nods once, and vaguely watches as Ron procures himself a broom. He flies steadily up to Harry, balancing the liquor bottle and a Quaffle in his hands.   
  
“You want to play a game?” Harry asks dully, nodding his head towards the Quaffle. Ron shrugs, taking a sip from the bottle with a grimace, before he passes it to Harry. It burns as it slides down his throat, like liquid molten, but Harry finds he doesn’t mind so much. He takes another sip.  
  
“Maybe,” Ron says after he swallows and exhales. His face is very red. “We could take it in turns guarding the hoop, and whoever lets the Quaffle through has to take a sip of that.” He points to the whiskey in Harry’s hands. Hands that are already feeling a mite unsteady after only two sips.   
  
Harry nods again. With a flick of his wand, the bottle is charmed to hover in the air. He flies in front of the hoop and catches Ron’s first two throws without incident. The third soars over his shoulder. He scowls and takes a slug from the bottle, grimacing as the whiskey puckers his mouth and rushes towards his head, making him feel a little fuzzy.   
  
He finds that when he tries to tell Ron he wants to have a go throwing the Quaffle, he can’t feel his lips. He laughs suddenly through his nose, using a finger to push his glasses up, and faces Ron, who has moved to guard the hoops. He suspects that Ron lets him make the first shot, as Ron’s smile is wide after he takes a long pull from the bottle. Ron blocks the next three. Harry’s limbs feel heavy and slow as he aims at the hoop. He can feel his hand, hot and sweaty, as it clutches his broom.  
  
The sun beats down as they fly around the hoop, their laughter growing louder as their shots become sloppier.   
  
“I hav’ta call’t quitsss,” Ron slurs. He’s clutching his broom precariously. Through his alcohol-laden eyesight, Harry can see Ron is merely moments away from tipping gracelessly towards the ground. Harry points an unsteady finger and giggles. Ron glares at him, his face flushed. “What’r you laughin’ at? Yer… yer not doin’ny better.” Ron’s broom tips sideways; he rights himself just in time.  
  
Harry roars with laughter, clutching at his side. And feels himself slipping, slipping, slipping, until he tumbles completely off his broom.  
  
“Oomph.” He lands heavily on his back as the wind is knocked from his chest. Above him, he can hear Ron howl with laughter. A moment later, he hears a heavy thud and muffled curse. “Damn,” Ron says again after a moment of pitiful moaning. “I think my wrist is broke.”  
  
Harry feels more laughter rise up in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this good. His shoulders shake as he rolls gingerly over onto his side. Ron, he notices, is watching him with a strange, goofy smile, cradling his wrist against his stomach. “Whatisit?” Harry murmurs, unnecessarily pushing his glasses back up his nose.  
  
Ron blinks slowly. “It’s nothin’. Jus’ havn’t seen y’laugh in’while.”  
  
“Oh,” Harry whispers. He coughs. “Lemme see your wrist.” He pushes himself heavily onto his knees and scoots his way towards Ron, who sits up, still favoring his arm.   
  
“It’s nice to see,” Ron notes quietly.  
  
Harry feels his face go hot. He avoids Ron’s eyes, concentrating instead on his awkwardly bent wrist. He reaches out and takes hold of it. His head feels heavy. Ron’s wrist is warm beneath his touch, sticky with sweat. Harry pokes around for a moment – he grew used to fixing battered limbs in the war – and though he can feel Ron’s eyes upon his face, he gives his full attention to his task. After a moment, he whispers a spell.   
  
“That should do it,” he says. “Wiggle it around to see if it feels okay.” He waits expectantly.  
  
“Harry,” Ron says softly.   
  
“Hmm?” He finally brings his eyes up to Ron’s. They are darker than he’s used to.  
  
“You have to let go of my wrist first.”  
  
“Oh.” Harry moves his hand away as if burned. He coughs again and drops his eyes to Ron’s lap, where his arm lays.  
  
He watches closely as Ron moves his wrist in a tender circle. “It feels fine,” he announces with a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”  
  
“No,” Harry protests, “it was nothing.” He feels sober now, though his head is still spinning. “Thank you for, well, for…” He trails off, gesturing around the pitch. His heart is slamming against his chest.  
  
“Oh,” Ron mutters, “don’t mention it. You know I’d – that I – well, you know….”  
  
Harry nods, once, and drops his eyes to Ron’s mouth. He stares in utter fascination as Ron licks his lips.   
  
“Harry.” He hears Ron’s voice as if from a great distance. His ears are buzzing. Just before he shuts his eyes and leans in, he notices that Ron’s cheeks have turned a bright pink beneath his purple freckles.   
  
*  
  
She’s sitting in the corner looking somewhat lost. It’s an odd look for her. During his year-long stay at Hogwarts, Viktor had grown used to a purposeful, knowing look on her face. He had grown used to an air of complete assurance. This look, open and vulnerable, is new. He can’t decide if he likes it.  
  
Her brown eyes open wide as he makes his way towards her. She smiles; it’s a guarded sort of smile, though her eyes grow soft. Viktor forces a blush away from his cheeks. She always had that gift, even at fifteen, to make him stammer and flush. As a woman of twenty, she still holds that strange power over him, the power that makes him feel like a school boy.   
  
He’s no longer a school boy. He fought in a war. The thought makes Viktor puff out his chest. “Hermy,” he starts, and forces himself to stop. His English has improved, though it seems not around her. “Herm-i-on-e,” he says slowly, noting with satisfaction that her smile grows a little wider, “eet’s very nice to see you.”  
  
“Viktor,” she answers warmly, accepting the hand he offers and clasping it tightly in her small, capable hands, “it’s lovely to see you as well. I wasn’t aware that you’d be here. Please - ” She pats the spot beside her. “Won’t you sit down?”  
  
Viktor settles in and glances sideways at her. “Your Headmistress invited everyvone who fight in the var here today,” he explains, watching as her eyes cloud over at the mention of the war. It’s not a sight he enjoys. “You are sad,” he notices aloud.  
  
Her eyes focus on him. “What? Oh, no – well, yes, actually, but only because –” She stops abruptly. “It’s not important.”  
  
It occurs to Viktor that Hermione is sitting alone when the destroyed castle is full of people she calls friends, sitting alone looking lost and afraid. He feels a flush of anger. What was so important that they left her alone to deal with this? He imagines she has longed to talk with someone but that no one has given her the chance to do so.  
  
“Of course it is important, Hermione,” he assures her quietly. “Your happiness is very important.”  
  
He’s satisfied to see a small flush on her pale cheeks. She shakes her head once, slowly, and sighs.  
  
“Come,” he says abruptly, standing up and holding out his hand. “Ve go somewhere to sit and talk.” He raises his eyebrows, a hopeful feeling flooding his chest, and feels relief when she takes his hand.  
  
They find a small classroom and sit down. Her shoulders are stiff and she peers sadly around the room. She smiles shyly at him. He’s uncertain how to proceed.  
  
“You look tense,” he says after a moment of studying her. He pulls a flask out of his robe. A gift from his father on his eighteenth birthday. He offers it. “This will help.”  
  
Hermione eyes the flask. “I don’t – I mean, thank you, Viktor, but I’m not much of a drinker.”  
  
“Just one sip,” Viktor presses, “to help relax. Vill not do much to mess up head.”  
  
Hermione reaches out tentative fingers. “It would be nice to relax,” she murmurs. “It’s been so long since I’ve been able to. Even now that the war is over, I can’t seem to let any of this tension go.” Viktor studies her as she brings the container to her lips. She meets his eyes as she takes a long sip, choking a little when she pulls it away.   
  
“Maybe not so much,” Viktor cautions. Hermione swipes her hand along her mouth, exhaling loudly.   
  
“That was awful,” she says, quite loudly, handing it back to him. Viktor laughs and takes a swig. “What did you want to talk about?” Hermione asks. Her eyes look brighter.   
  
“Vatever is bothering you,” Viktor answers earnestly. “You looked very sad in the Great Hall.”  
  
“Did I? Well, I suppose…” She trails off. Viktor waits patiently, and after a moment, Hermione begins to speak again. He listens calmly as she tells him everything she’s worried about, her friends and her family and her future, offering advice only when she asks for it. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the sound of her voice.  
  
“Thank you,” she says with a catch in her voice, when she is all talked out. “I needed this.”  
  
“You’re velcome,” Viktor answers. “Your happiness is very important,” he says again, and adds, “to me,” in a quiet voice.   
  
Her eyes fly open. “Is it?” Her hand reaches out. She traces one pale finger along his forearm. Viktor feels goose pimples rise along the back of his neck.  
  
“You’re very nice.” She sighs softly. “Nice, nice, nice.” Viktor swallows harshly, watching her eyes dance. “It’s been ages since I’ve been around someone as nice as you.”  
  
“Oh,” he says stupidly. Her eyes are fixed on his mouth. Her hand is still tracing along his forearm. She leans in. “Hermione,” Viktor says unsteadily, backing away. Perhaps giving her a sip from his flask was a bad idea. “I do not think…”  
  
“Shhh…” She pushes a finger against his mouth. “No thinking. Just relax.”  
  
Her eyes drop to his lips again. Viktor hears her sigh contentedly just before she brushes against him.  
  
*  
  
Her lips are soft and pliant, not chapped and rough like that nice boy from Hufflepuff’s had been in sixth year, and she imagines it is gentler than kissing ought to be. Luna smiles and pulls back. Ginny eyes are wide and her freckles stand out against her pale skin.   
  
“Coming at it sideways?” Ginny asks, raising her eyebrows and giggling a little.  
  
Luna nods. “Even when you come at it straightforward.” She leans in again, and presses her lips harder this time. It’s curious, the way that Ginny’s Quidditch-roughened hand on her arm makes her whole body tingle. Ginny squeezes slightly, and Luna can feel her nails through the light summer robs she’s wearing. She shivers, leaning into Ginny’s touch.   
  
Ginny tastes like Butterbeer and something wicked. She tastes wonderful. Luna tells her so, a moment later, and Ginny laughs and laughs, and says she’s glad, because she thinks Luna tastes pretty great herself. Luna smiles again. They kiss, mouths meeting over and over in a kind of sugary, wet fusion. Ginny’s mouth is like a drug, sweet and maybe a little forbidden, but it makes Luna feel like she’s soaring. Things tip sideways, and it’s always best for Luna when they do, so when Ginny pushes her back along the desk, she moves willingly.   
  
Ginny pulls her robe up, her fingers dragging along Luna’s legs, leaving tiny scratches in their wake. Luna smiles, watching the red lines appear. They make her feel marked. The air is cool as it swirls around her legs. She bends her knees over the desk, giving Ginny better access and Ginny’s eyes are hesitant, though they are painted cinnamon-dark with desire.   
  
When she moves her hand over the center of Luna’s damp knickers, Luna gasps and pushes her hips against her. Ginny bends down to capture her lips again, and oh, she knows exactly what to do. Ginny’s fingers dip inside, and Luna’s so wet she’s almost embarrassed, but Ginny sighs against her lips, a sound that sends spirals of sensation rushing through her center. Then Luna forgets to be embarrassed at all, as her limbs go heavy and weighted, and everything in her feels connected to Ginny’s hand.  
  
Ginny moves her fingers slowly but firmly, brushing that spot over and again, until Luna begins to shake. Her whole body shakes and shakes and she feels hot and sticky and as if she’s coming apart at the seams. But it’s absolutely right and wonderful. That feeling, it climbs along inside her, moving higher and higher, and she knows she’s close. She tells Ginny and Ginny licks against her neck, one long, hot stroke, and that is all Luna needs before she feels herself tumbling down.   
  
*  
  
  
  
Ron suspects he not quite drunk enough for this to happen, but he leans in anyway, and brushes his lips right against Harry’s. It’s not like kissing Lavender, not soft and not smug and not a million other things that he can’t think of right now, because – oh – Harry’s just run his tongue right across the seam of his lips, asking for permission to enter. Ron’s first thought is that Harry knows how to do this, but he squelches it quickly, not wanting to think about who else Harry’s been kissing, not when Harry’s hard, chapped lips are opening up to him, as if he wants for all the world to devour Ron whole.  
  
Ron thinks he will gladly let him.   
  
When Harry finally backs away, staring owl-eyed behind his glasses, his chest is rising and falling rapidly. Ron stares right back, feeling a thrill of something wicked rush its way through him. Harry’s eyes are quite amazing really, when they’re focused with such intensity.  
  
Ron wants to laugh. He wants to shout. He wants to kiss Harry again. He leans in, as certain as he’s ever been that Harry wants the kiss just as badly. There’s nothing hesitant about this, nothing slow. It’s all lipstonguesteeth. It’s all hands suddenly roving over sweaty robes and beating hearts and blood rushing to his cock. Harry bites down on his bottom lip, and Ron gasps into his mouth. He’s being pushed backwards, onto the grass, and he lets himself go. This is too easy. It’s like flying. He opens his eyes; the sky above Harry’s head is blue and bright. Harry’s still doing that amazing thing with his tongue, that licking, twisting, twirling thing that makes Ron feel as if he’s on fire.   
  
He moves his hands to pull Harry into him, and ohholygod if this gets any better he thinks he'll come right in his pants. It’s too fast suddenly, the blood pumps and spins and if this doesn’t stop he’s going to make an arse of himself. He pushes at Harry’s shoulders.  
  
Harry backs away. His cheeks are flushed and his mouth is wet and swollen. His eyes are tinted dark with hurt and desire. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, turning to hide his face.  
  
Ron rushes to stop him. ‘No!” he says, rather forcefully. “I was just going to – well, it was all really fast, and I thought maybe we should slow down, just a bit. Not – you know – stop, but just – un…unless you want to? Stop that is.”  
  
Harry’s staring at him as if he’s a little mad. Maybe he is. “I don’t want to stop,” Harry says simply.   
  
Ron feels the air expel from his lungs. A slow smile tugs at his lips. “Me neither,” he says around his grin. “Me neither. But we can’t –.” He waves his arm around. “We’re outside. Anyone could come out and see.”  
  
Harry nods once, though his eyes seem glued to Ron’s lips. Ron feels dizzy. “Maybe the locker rooms?” he suggests.  
  
They’re both up immediately. The walk is short, just a few steps, really, but it feels tedious and seems to take forever. The second they’re through the door, Ron’s got Harry pushed up against the lockers. His glasses dig into the side of Ron’s cheek, but Ron barely notices, not when Harry drags his foot up along Ron’s ankle, opening his legs wide. It’s even easier this way. Ron’s taller, but it doesn’t take much to bend his knees and match his length along Harry’s. Harry makes a sound of unadulterated enthusiasm; it lances straight to Ron’s crotch, and he presses harder against Harry’s body. His hips can’t seem to quiet down, they move in circle after delicious, friction-creating circle and when Harry impatiently begins to peel away his robes, Ron follows suit.   
  
*  
  
Kissing him is not at all what she expected. It isn’t difficult or awkward. It feels… right. Rather like figuring out a difficult Arithmancy problem. Hermione sighs against Viktor’s lips, but all too soon he’s moving away. She feels a measure of disappointment at the hesitant look in his eye. Perhaps she’s judged him wrongly, though he’d seemed so eager to please her. Perhaps he doesn’t feel –   
  
“Hermione,” he breaks into her rather mortified thoughts. “I cannot -.”  
  
Heat floods her cheeks. “Oh, no,” she rushes, overcome by embarrassment, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to – well, I thought that maybe you – but that was a long time ago, and obviously, you no longer feel, but I just thought – I’m sorry,” she concludes, pressing her lips together.  
  
Viktor eyes her for a moment, and then something like comprehension falls across his face. “No, Hermione,” he says. “Please do not understand me wrong. I am very much – that is to say, I think you are vonderful. I only am vorried that I’m taking advantage of you.”  
  
Hermione lets out a breath. “Taking advantage of me, but why?”  
  
“Because you vere drinking,” he explains, gesturing towards the open flask on the desk, “and because you were sad.”  
  
“Oh. Right. Well, I’m not… I mean, I’m. Okay. I understand.” She nods and backs away. He is still watching her wearily. “We should just go back, then?” she suggests, suddenly wanting nothing more than to quit the room and his company at once. When she moves towards the door, however, he blocks her way.  
  
“Vait,” he whispers, studying the spot directly above her head. Hermione jumps, not used to sound of his voice, low and throaty. It sends something tumbling through her. He looks as if contemplating something important.  
  
“What is it?” she asks.  
  
When she was younger, still in Muggle school, the children used to take turns standing in doorways, pressing their arms with all of their might against the frame of the door. When they stepped away, their arms would float up of their own accord, weightless and free. It was a heady feeling. Watching him swallow thickly, as if he’s made some sort of decision, she feels like that now.  
  
“I just…I vant to…”  
  
“Want to what?” she asks a little breathlessly.   
  
“Touch you, is that all right?”  
  
Hermione feels her world tilt sideways. She nods slightly, her eyesight going dim. “Yes.” Her voice sticks in her throat. “Yes.” Louder this time, and quieter, “please.”   
  
He makes a sound of pure physical impatience, and with one swift step forward closes the distance between them so that he is directly in front of her. His hands clumsily clasp her own, and gently, warmly, he touches his lips to hers. They are slightly chapped, a little wet, and altogether comforting. He slants his head sideways, flicking his tongue across her lips. With a sigh, Hermione opens up to him, and is rewarded with a deep, satisfying growl from Viktor.  
  
  
*  
  
She smiles, looking at Ginny, and Ginny smiles back shyly. Her eyes are round and eager, and Luna’s suddenly quite keen to touch Ginny, there, suddenly quite keen to hear Ginny sigh again, into her ear.   
  
She switches spots with Ginny, pleased when Ginny readily moves to lay against the desk, and now it’s her who’s pushing up the robes and her who’s making the girl on the desk pant and shake. Ginny’s wet and slick and tight. Her legs fall open, hard, against the desk, and Luna shifts her lips away from Ginny’s red, gasping mouth. She kisses her way down Ginny’s robes, finally moving underneath and pressing her lips right against Ginny. Ginny shouts out, and her body twists beneath Luna’s mouth. Luna can feel the terrible, sweet tension mounting in Ginny’s writhing body. She holds on for all she’s worth.  
  
  
*  
  
Their lips stay connected as they rip away clothing. “Yes,” he murmurs into Harry’s mouth, as Harry’s nails scrape against his shoulders . He slips his robes off completely.  
  
“Yes,” Harry echoes, moving away briefly to yank his T-shirt over his head. His hair sticks straight up. Ron can’t help but run his fingers through it, feeling a rush of power when Harry’s eyes close shut on a hiss. He pulls Harry’s glasses off his nose, watches as the green eyes go a little unfocused, and tosses them onto the pile of clothing accumulating on the floor.  
  
The rest of their clothing comes off quickly. Ron’s trousers pool at his feet, but he’s too impatient for the feel of Harry to bother kicking them off, and then without warning, Harry has dropped to his knees in front of him, pressing his hips back against the smooth, cool lockers, as he stares straight at Ron’s crotch.  
  
And Ron knows what’s coming, of course, it’s impossible not to, when Harry’s wicked mouth grins widely and he looks hungrily at Ron’s pulsing cock. But he’s still not ready for the wet friction that is Harry’s eager tongue. “Aaah.” He nearly swoons, knees buckling slightly as Harry licks, long and hot and with sinful precision. Things get a little muddled, as Ron feels himself tip closer to the edge. Harry’s mouth moves up and down, without stopping, and Ron wants to watch, but his eyes slide shut as waves of pleasure spin through him. Suddenly, suddenly, he’s shouting and quaking and spilling messily into Harry, who licks steadily on until Ron can do nothing but sink to the floor in a kind of catatonic bliss.  
  
That doesn’t last for long. Because Harry’s there, staring at him with a wet mouth and a twitching cock, and Ron wonders if this is what Harry feels like when he’s sighted the Snitch. He dives, for all the world feeling like he’s reaching for the prize. Harry laughs a little, caught off balance as Ron pushes him into the floor and captures his swollen mouth.   
  
He kisses his way down Harry’s body, over his narrow chest and around his bellybutton, feeling his stomach flutter slightly as he makes his way closer to his destination.  
  
Harry swears as Ron slides his mouth over him. Ron smiles. He feels vaguely smug, knowing the sensations he’s causing in Harry. Harry thrashes beneath him, gasping, his hands clutching at Ron’s shoulders. Ron slurps and sucks and doesn’t give up one inch, as he brings Harry closer and closer to the edge.  
  
  
*  
  
Viktor presses her back into the desk. His hands are rough and ready, and they skim along her skin with wicked precision. Something liquid resides in her belly, trickling between her legs until she nearly collapses from the pleasure.   
  
Viktor mumbles something unintelligible, and his breath is hot against her neck. She lets him lift her onto the desk, gives him ready access as he breathes in her ear and places small, warm kisses against her neck.  
  
“Hermione,” he hums, lips pressed to her flesh, “you cannot know how long I have imagined….” His voice trails off as settles his mouth firmly against her.   
  
She feels something powerful and feminine at his words. She feels… wanted, and she wants to laugh and sob and let him – “What have you imagined?” she asks.  
  
He pulls back slightly. “I have imagined kissing you,” he says, fingers sliding along her lips. Her heart is threatening to leap out of her throat. She lets out a shaky breath.   
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Oh, yes,” he whispers gruffly. “I have imagined touching you here.” His hands skim down her arms. He cups the weight of her breasts and his thumbs move along the rough fabric of her robe. Hermione trembles as she lets her eyes fall shut. A fine sweat breaks out along her skin and her mouth drops open in a pant.  
  
“And here,” he says, moving his hands away from her breasts and grasping her firmly at the waist. She drags her eyes open.   
  
“And…?”  
  
He mutters something fierce, and his mouth is covering hers, and suddenly she can’t touch enough of his skin. He can’t touch enough of hers. She’s pulling and yanking and she needs to get these clothes off, right now, she just does.  
  
It all becomes hot and sweaty. The first time she slides her palm along his stomach and takes him in her hand, his eyes shut and he swears, and it’s the most beautiful sound Hermione has ever heard. The first time he cups her fully, she is wet and writhing against him, and she shouts out against his mouth.  
  
He has her stomach pressed against the desk, and she bends over willingly, desperate for him to finally fill her. He envelops her body with his bulkier, darker form. She pushes her hips back. She needs him to stop the ache that has been building since he kissed her, and finally, finally, he slides in. His breath is hot in her ear, and she turns her face towards him, and they’re kissing and sliding and pressing, and she feels it coiling within her stomach. It’s going to break. It’s going to be amazing.   
  
  
*  
  
“Oh,” Ginny gasps, lifting her hips clear off the desk as Luna’s tongue swirls around her, making her give one long and shattering shout.  
  
*  
“My,” Harry chokes, letting himself explode in riot of sunspiked color. Ron’s mouth is steady and strong and hot, and moves until Harry’s emptied himself completely.  
  
*  
  
“God,” Hermione sobs, shifting back into Viktor’s pounding hips as the tension in her breaks in spiraling waves, and she cries out again and again, and Viktor stays inside until her last sigh is uttered.  
  
  
  
End


End file.
